


We Are Meant Not To Be Strangers

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Movie Reference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-03 01:14:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6590686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya realises a split second too late that Napoleon is not pulling his gun at him.</p><p>---</p><p>The one before the balcony scene. (based on the movie)</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Are Meant Not To Be Strangers

Illya’s finger had pulled the trigger before he could understand Napoleon was not doing the same. He sees the bullet from his gun soars through the air like time had slowed down. A split second later, Napoleon is staggering back against the ottoman by the foot of his bed, slumps on it with a pained look clearly etched on his face. Something drops to the floor from his limp hand and Illya’s eyes widen in shock, almost doubles over at the sight before him.

It is not Napoleon’s gun but it is his father’s watch. The one he thought he had lost forever.

Illya almost stops breathing once he realises his horrific mistake. His gut twists painfully, feels the floor spins underneath him. For a few seconds, he is unable to move, rooted to where he is standing. Then slowly, as he gains control over himself, the grip on his gun slackens and it clatters to the floor as he rushes towards Napoleon.

“Solo,” he murmurs in contained panic. “No. _No_.”

Illya drops to his knees in front of Napoleon, clutches the American’s arms to keep him steady. Napoleon, head lolling back, groans and then blinks a little dazedly at Illya.

“You are welcome, Peril,” he grunts at the Russian, gritting his teeth. There is that trademark smirk on his lips despite being in obvious pain but Illya ignores it.

“Let me see your wound,” he demands shakily.

Illya pulls away one of Napoleon’s hands that is covering his bloodied shoulder, visibly sags in relief when he sees the bullet had only grazed the skin. Napoleon’s earlier stance had been wrong and Illya should have known better that he was not reaching for his gun. His hands come up to cup the American’s face between them, thumbs skimming his cheeks much to Napoleon’s little shock.

“I am sorry,” he whispers, fails to hide his despair as he searches Napoleon’s eyes, the worried look still lingering on his face. “I didn’t mean to do this. I thought—”

“I was going to shoot you,” Napoleon finishes off Illya’s sentence and the Russian hangs his head down at that.

“Y-yes,” he stammers.

“It’s okay, Peril. It did look like I was going for my gun as well. It’s understandable,” Napoleon cuts him off with a weak smile. “Don’t beat yourself over this.”

Illya’s mind had been in chaos ever since Oleg had instructed the kill. The internal battle between his head and heart, his head telling him his country was above everything else, and his heart crying out for him to defy his handler’s orders. He should have followed his heart. He should have. And now he’s hurt Napoleon.

“You missed on purpose, didn’t you?”

Illya blinks at Napoleon, his eyes questioning. “On purpose?”

“It was a straight shot, Peril. You couldn’t have missed from that distance. Not by a long shot.”

Illya had been distracted resulting in his aim going askew, that’s what it was. And he’s grateful because he does not think he would be able to live with the guilt if the bullet had meandered a little to the right. Paying no attention to Napoleon’s words, he starts to undo the tie around Napoleon's neck before unbuttoning the American’s shirt. Crimson is soaking through the garment too rapidly for just a bullet graze and Illya has to make sure it is nothing more than just that. Napoleon winces when Illya tugs at the shirt a little too hard in his haste to get it off, teases him at his over-eagerness, says something like _‘can’t wait to get me off this shirt, Peril?’_ but Illya chooses not to listen, starts to apologise again before Napoleon could say anything else.

“The bullet, it hit the flesh part of your shoulder. Other than this, your wound is not too alarming,” he says, the regret in his voice evident, his accent thickening, an indication he is clearly stressed. “You must know I did not mean to hurt you, Cowboy. I am sorry.”

“It’s all right, Peril. Stop apologising.”

“No, I will not! I could have killed you!”

“But it _was_ our original mission protocol,” Napoleon reasons. “To kill each other. To get the damned disc.”

“To kill _if_ necessary,” Illya mutters.

“And it was for you when you thought I was reaching for my gun.”

“But you were not even trying to! You were just trying to return my watch and I shot you!” Illya laments. He tears his eyes away from Napoleon’s gaze as if ashamed to look at the American in the eye.

“Illya—”

“Forget about the disc,” Illya mutters, matter-of-factly. “It is not important.”

“It’s not?” Napoleon questions.

“No! _You_ are more important!”

Napoleon pulls back a little in confusion at Illya’s defiant cry. The seriousness in his voice and the words, spoken with venom, startles him, because Napoleon knows exactly where Illya’s loyalty lies. It’s with his country. He is a proud KGB agent, who upholds his dignity and honour above everything else. And Illya certainly would not choose him over things that matter the most to him, over something that has been instilled deep inside of him, because who is Napoleon to Illya? Who is he in Illya’s life?

“Illya,” Napoleon starts again. He is not entirely sure what he wants to say to the Russian. And Illya, while Napoleon tries to conjure up words to say, stays adamant. This argument about the disc could wait. The more pressing matter for him at the moment is Napoleon. He wants to check on his injury.

“You’re bleeding too much. I must clean your wound. Mustn’t get it infected.”

“It’s just a graze, Peril. I can manage this.”

“No, I will help you. I did this. _Please_ , let me.”

Illya had never really asked Napoleon for anything before, had never cared for his opinion if he wants to do anything, but now, this time, he is asking for Napoleon’s permission to let him help him and the guilt in the Russian’s pleading eyes is a little too much for Napoleon to say no to. Furthermore, his wound now is starting to sting rather badly. Not wanting to fight him, Napoleon nods and simply lets Illya have his way. He watches as Illya disappears to get the medical kit from the bathroom and when he appears again not a few seconds later, he’s on Napoleon at once.

Starting by wiping the blood that’s trickling down Napoleon’s arm, Illya attends to the wound with gentle hands, cleaning the broken skin carefully a couple of times and once he is sure it has stopped bleeding, he disinfects it with iodine. Napoleon cannot help but winced when Illya saturates the wounded area with the liquid. Illya gives him an apologetic look but Napoleon just gestures for him to get on with it, and Illya continues, covering the wound with a layer of gauze before bandaging it properly. All the while, Napoleon just watches him, transfixed.

“Thank you,” he says a while later as they sit next to each other at the edge of his bed but that only earns him an angry glare from Illya.

“For what? For shooting you?” he dryly says. Napoleon only hums and then shrugs.

“Yeah, for that and then for patching me up.”

Illya sighs defeatedly. Despite his annoying ways and their constant bickering throughout the weeks they’d worked together, Illya had found himself slowly gravitating towards the American for reasons he cannot explain and that he is undoubtedly fond of him. Even Gaby does not bring out the emotions he feels like whenever he is around Napoleon. Illya cringes inside at the thought and is sure he will never hear the end of it if Napoleon ever finds out.

“I do not think it will require stitches,” Illya says, gesturing at Napoleon’s bandaged shoulder, still looking disconsolate at what he had done. Seeing that, Napoleon at once dismisses Illya’s worry.

“Stop looking so guilty, I’ve had worse, Peril. This will be fine.”

“No matter. We still need to check it later again, just to make sure.”

“You will not be here later.”

At first, Illya frowns as if not understanding Napoleon’s point but then realises it soon enough. “The mission is over,” he whispers and Napoleon thinks Illya’s reaction to that fact is a little too jarring. He quickly shakes it off, thinks maybe he is seeing into it too much.

“Yes. We won’t be seeing each other again.”

Somehow, that knowledge is actually very disheartening when Napoleon thinks about it again, and when Illya’s hand on him starts to tremble, Napoleon realises his eyes had not been playing tricks on him earlier. Illya _is_ upset that they would be parting ways.

“Cowboy,” Illya starts. He leans forward, fists going pale as he clenches them hard around his knees. For a moment, neither men have anything to say to the other before Illya drops his gaze on his father’s watch that’s still lying on the carpeted floor in front of them, untouched. As if only just noticing it, he reaches for it, picks it up before strapping it around his wrist, lets his fingers dwell there for a while. He then turns to face Napoleon again who is eyeing him intently.

“You found my father’s watch. Thank you.”

“And we still have that damn disc in our hands.”

Illya’s gut twists hearing that, knows they still have a matter to settle but it warms his heart that Napoleon had said _‘our hands’_ , that he trusts Illya enough to make a joint decision on what to do with the information that both their countries want. But would Napoleon have left with it had he not shot him? Illya does not have answers to that, neither does he want to know.

“Cowboy,” he calls him again, uses that nickname which had somehow become a term of endearment more than anything else, lets out a breath he does not realise he has been holding in. Before he is able to stop himself, he finds himself leaning towards the American, still unsure of what he is about to do. But there is no uncertainty from Napoleon. He captures Illya’s lips in a well-calculated precision and Illya, still mindful of Napoleon’s hurt shoulder, instinctively wraps one arm around Napoleon’s waist at the contact, pulls him closer, lips voluntarily parting at the gentle assault, resulting in Napoleon deepening the kiss.

“I’ve never met anyone like you before,” he murmurs breathlessly against Napoleon’s mouth once he breaks the kiss to gasp for air instead of questioning Napoleon’s motivation for kissing him.

A rumble, almost like a laugh, reverberates through Napoleon’s body hearing that and he raises an eyebrow at the too adorable Russian. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You are the most infuriating man I’ve ever met and yet you do things like saving me or returning my father’s watch when you didn’t have to. What is it with you? Why do you do this?”

“I’ve no idea, Peril. Maybe it’s you. Maybe you just bring out the best in me.”

Illya shakes his head. “You are impossible.”

Without warning, Illya reaches out a hand to brush a few strands of hair off of Napoleon’s forehead. Then a kiss is pressed there, lingers on his skin for a while and Napoleon thinks he hears his heart break a little. And he is still figuring out where all the tenderness is coming from, why the hell he is suddenly feeling this way for the Russian. He had shot him for god’s sake, made him bleed all over his expensive shirt, and now they are sharing kisses and he is having strange intimate feelings for the angry KGB spy? What has gotten into him? What has gotten into _them?_

It has been a day full of surprises indeed.

“Peril, we’ve to get rid of the disc. Neither of us could have it if we are to survive this.”

Illya simply nods at Napoleon’s words, lets him take control of matters as if he does not really care what happens to the disc or if Oleg were to find out he had defied his orders. All that simply does not matter to Illya at the moment. Sighing out loud, he then leans his head down, rests his forehead on the point of Napoleon’s shoulder. Seeking each other’s warmth and comfort like they have done it a million times before, Napoleon’s fingers starts to card through Illya’s hair. He draws in a breath and closes his eyes. 

“Not all KGB spies behave this way, or do they?” he teases the Russian.

“Shut up, Cowboy,” Illya retorts and Napoleon bites back a laugh. Somehow, Illya is determined to make this parting of ways between them as difficult as he possibly can. 

But moments later on his balcony, after they had burned the disc to ashes, Napoleon learns, to both his horror and surprise, Waverly has decided to keep the team together and astonishingly, both the CIA and KGB have allowed their loan to this organisation called UNCLE.

What had happened between them earlier, why he had taken his chance by kissing Illya, was because it’s supposed to be a one-off. It was something Napoleon could live with because he will not be seeing Illya again, because things like those do not happen between partners, especially not in their line of work which could compromise missions or put themselves in danger. But now, Napoleon would have to live with the fact that they had started something between them and he would still be seeing the Russian spy, would be still working with him until someone decides to pull the plug on them.

The knowledge leaves Napoleon reeling. And a little bit nervous.

“Napoleon.”

A sharp intake of breath escapes Napoleon’s lips. It’s the first time Illya has called him by his first name.

“Illya?”

“Are you all right?”

He turns to face the Russian. They’re alone again after both Gaby and Waverly had left them with that bombshell of a news.

“This news. A bit of a shocker, don’t you think?”

“Maybe better than what we expected?”

Napoleon hums. Maybe it was, but that is not what is wreaking Napoleon’s mind at the moment.

“So this isn’t goodbye then,” he mutters, making his thoughts known.

“No, I suppose not,” Illya answers softly. “Are you sorry?”

Napoleon flashes him a steely look for Illya could not be more wrong. “I’m not sorry. We were thinking of ourselves earlier. What we would be giving up, what we would need to face, but now, looks like that isn’t the case after all.”

“You make us sound selfish,” Illya says a little perturbed.

“Sometimes, we need to be a little bit selfish, Peril.”

Illya softens for a moment and then smiles.

“You will be okay with this.”

That is not a question but more of a forceful statement from the Russian. He wants Napoleon to be all right with it, he is telling him to. Because they will not get another chance like this even if Napoleon wants to believe things are not as straightforward as it seems. He then braves a smile at Illya.

“I have to be, don’t I?”

There is a brief pause. Napoleon tries to think of reasons why this should be a bad idea, them working together but in the end, he could not think of any.

“What about you? Will _you_ be okay with this?”

It was his turn to ask Illya but instead of answering, Illya walks right into his personal space. A few weeks back this would never have happened, Napoleon thinks. A breach like that would probably end with a bloody nose for either one of them, most likely Napoleon. He looks up into the Russian’s blue eyes and smooths one hand on Illya’s shoulder, lets it linger on his jacket’s collar.

“Illya?” he asks again, seeking some form of clarification from the Russian, and Illya nods, mutters, “We’ll be leaving for Istanbul soon.”

“Do not forget your curly wurly shoes.”

The corners of Illya’s lips curl up. He grazes a hand on Napoleon’s cheek. “We can make this work, Cowboy.”

Napoleon smiles at Illya’s words, at the Russian’s hand now on his shoulder, thinks about today, and Rome, the catalyst of them both and figures, they would definitely make it work.

**Author's Note:**

> Dabbling of scenes based on the movie. I decided to do my own take on what happened before the balcony scene.(which have been done numerous times before) although I hope you will like this little fic. :)


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